


L'Ange

by aldonza



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Brothels, Controversial Take: TOP RAOUL, First Time Topping, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, M/M, Musical Based, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Think 19th C. Pretty Woman except Raoul is Richard Gere and Erik is Julia Roberts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: L’Ange was indeed the most profoundly sad man he had ever seen. And it made Raoul wish to see a smile, some sign that the man was not in perpetual pain.(AKA the AU where Raoul accidentally visits a brothel and falls for a prostitute he can't see.)
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 34
Kudos: 89





	L'Ange

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? I'm not writing pharoga for once(!). And it's ALW-based(!). Full disclosure- I wrote something like this a long time ago but never really published it anywhere. Also it was the *inverse* scenario with Erik and Raoul's roles flipped; I remembered that I did this and said to my past self, COWARD. I'm no longer a COWARD so this plays out the way it does. 
> 
> This is a bit weird, but I hope you'll enjoy reading anyway!

Raoul was sure of one thing and one thing only-- he did not want to be here. And not for the first time, he cursed himself and his inability to simply say no. He could have told Philippe he was too tired to meet with old friends. He could have called on his sisters instead and confessed how much he had missed them-- he had little doubt Charlotte or Aimee would have fled to his rescue. He could have thanked Emile for a pleasant evening and returned home for a warm bath. Or perhaps convinced the man to accompany him to the Opera instead.

Emile was a polite man. He would have given Raoul a sheepish smile, wiped his spectacles, and nodded. But disappointment would have touched his eyes, or worse yet- shame. And Raoul could never bear to upset his friends.

Raoul de Chagny did not have many friends. He had colleagues in the Navy, he supposed, fellow officers who had stopped harassing him for his boyish gait once he’d proven himself a soldier as ferocious as he was pretty. He did not like conflict, but he’d learned in the past few years that a firm fist sometimes earned more respect than a shiny coin. But respect, sometimes kinship, was not friendship.

He was acquainted with Emile, he supposed. They’d played together as children once or twice when Emile’s father, Philippe’s dear friend Decaen had pronounced himself the Vicomte’s uncle. Emile had weak lungs and could never quite keep up with Raoul as they frolicked. 

Poor boy, had been Raoul’s first thought. And he’d slowed down for Emile’s sake. He’d listened to Emile’s woes and collected insects at his behest. And when the other boys were mean to poor Emile, Raoul only wished to be nicer. 

He cared more for pleasing Emile than being liked by Emile. And Philippe had mistaken it for an unbreakable bond. He was such good friends with Decaen that Raoul hadn’t the heart to speak the truth.

And the truth was- his whole life- he’d only had one person he truly considered a friend. One person he cared about pleasing as much as he cared about being liked by. He would gladly share his secrets and woes and whatever else with this friend. Christine. That had been her name, and even now, he smiled at the thought of her northern accent. He often wondered if she still had it, if she was still the clumsy girl he knew at ten. He’d once promised to marry her. So very long ago-

And then the Navy had happened. Now he returned to Paris a man, back straight and shoulders broad, perhaps very different from the boy Christine once knew, though he liked to believe he had not changed a bit. Philippe welcomed him with open arms, doting on him like a babe. He’d insisted on a celebration and summoned Decaen and his son. Philippe wanted to keep Raoul’s arrival a surprise from his sisters- to be called on in the morning- and the Vicomte had grinned. He’d thought it a wonderful idea because he really had dearly missed their hugs and kisses.

“Now what should we do to celebrate Raoul’s return?” Decaen had asked over dinner, the restaurant’s low candlelight threatening to lull the younger de Chagny to sleep.

“Not another round of wine, I hope.” Philippe smiled, still cutting pieces of steak for Raoul’s plate, as if the latter was no more than a boy of seven. 

Raoul allowed Philippe to indulge. His brother was a lonely man, he knew, perpetually so. And if it pleased him to dote on Raoul, then he saw no shame in acting the part.

“Shall we catch a show?” Decaen mused, “you haven’t been to the Opera yet have you, boy? There’s a new singer, I heard-”

“I- I know a place,” Emile said in a low squeak.

When he looked to Raoul, something tense passed his gaze. 

“Speak up, then,” his father said.

Emile eyed his food, as if ashamed. He pushed his spectacles up. “Do you have a… paramour, Raoul?”

Philippe laughed, as did his friend. Raoul had chuckled along, but Emile’s dark stare begged for an answer. Chalking the flush in his cheeks up to the wine, Raoul shook his head.

“No. I do not. I do not know if I ever will.”

There had been Christine. But that was a decade ago, and he had no desire to be laughed at any more that night.

“So where is this ‘establishment’ you’re speaking of?” Philippe asked in Raoul’s stead, “I would normally forbid it, but it is a night of celebration. Emile, Raoul is yours tonight.”

Raoul had hoped Philippe would forbid it. Hiding the disappointment, he pretended to smile.

“What, you’re not going with them? So virtuous, Philippe?” Decaen grinned, and the Comte sighed, a playful flip in his rolling eyes.

“Let the boys have their fun tonight. You would only spoil the mood.”

The two men laughed and Raoul again met Emile’s eyes, trying and failing to read them. He did not know what the establishment entailed, but he had an inkling and it twisted a knot in his stomach. He did not want to be with a woman he did not love. And he did not want a woman to pretend she loved him. Surely she deserved more than a few francs from a stranger who felt no warmth.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Emile said softly, so quiet that his father did not hear.

But a twinge of pity tugged at Raoul’s heart. Emile had no other companions. Perhaps he needed Raoul’s friendship tonight. So he smiled and said, “I would be glad to, Emile.”

And then, once Philippe and Decaen saw them off into the night, Emile hailed a carriage for their trip. It was within the hour, he’d promised. That did not make the journey any less uncomfortable. Raoul was tired and quite frankly, did not know what to say to Emile. The younger man spent the trip eyeing him, inspecting him the way he did those poor insects. And when he spoke, it only made the journey worse.

“Have you ever touched a woman, Raoul?” he’d asked timidly.

Raoul chuckled, quite unsure what Emile wanted him to say. “No.”

“Not even in the Navy?”

“It was strict. And I-” Christine popped into his head, as rosy as he recalled. “I had no desire to do so. Until the time comes, I suppose.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have, you know.”

_“What?”_

“I’ve touched a woman.” Emile twiddled his thumbs. “I did not like it. I was like you- no desire. Would you- would you say the same, Raoul- that we are alike?”

Emile had looked so forlorn and desperate that Raoul wanted to assuage his fears then and there. 

He looked his friend in the eye. “Yes, I dare say we are alike.”

A shock of relief passed through Emile’s face. And then they had arrived at the corner of a bakery, long since closed for the night. When the driver left, Raoul had rather confusingly followed Emile and his jittery steps down several dimly lit streets. 

_I see why he wanted me to come!_ He thought, _he could die here without me!_ Raoul had no weapon, to his regret, but he was confident that he’d be able to fend off any roughs that came their way. 

“What do you think?” Emile asked.

They’d arrived before a building of bricks. Raoul could see warm glows from within, dusty windows cracked from a near century of frost and wind. It must have been a fine building at some point, at least four storeys high, Baroque in style. But the landlord had evidently let it go to waste. The walls had the appearance of crumbling dough, breaks seeping with moss and soot. 

“Where are we?” Raoul said.

He started when Emile grabbed his wrist and began leading him towards the front steps. “This is the Hotel Apollo... it’s- it’s for people like us.”

His head was spinning. But Philippe was not around and Raoul surely did not know how they would hail a ride from here. 

“I don’t- I don’t follow,” he told Emile, more certain than ever that he did not want to be there.

“I always knew we were alike,” Emile babbled, “it’s all right, we don’t have to hide here. You can just let go and enjoy tonight.”

“What-”

“You’ve always been so good to me, Raoul. I wanted to repay you, and this place- it’s really the best I could think of-”

Raoul wrestled himself out of Emile’s grip, nearly ripping his sleeve in the process. Flabbergasted, he cried, “Emile, what do you mean-”

Emile had reached the door then, a proud- relieved- grin on his face. “We’re safe here, Raoul. This hotel serves men like us!”

As Emile spoke to a voice behind the door, Raoul tried to twist his head around those words. _Men like us?_ And slowly- sluggishly- he pieced together Emile’s odd questions, all indirect and pertaining to one thing only: whether or not Raoul cared for women. Raoul had misread everything and even lied. And he could not take it back, not if he wished to preserve their friendship, not if he wished to save Emile from the mortification he now felt. 

The door opened. And Raoul had no more doubt. The Hotel Apollo was a brothel of men. 

He could tell from moans creaking from its halls, low, masculine, and nothing like the womanly crieds he'd only ever read about in his sisters’ novels. Dim light shone from lamps suspended upon the walls, casting a yellow glow through the dark. Raoul made out the shapes of men lined within, casually lounging about sofas and chaise longues in what he could only assume used to be a lobby. 

“Raoul, come in. It’s all right,” Emile assured him, though it was the opposite assurance of what Raoul had wanted to hear.

The slouching _concierge_ , a fellow who seemed like he needed a year’s worth of sleep, took Emile’s hat and held the door open for his guest. Raoul could have left then. But he could not in good conscience leave Emile in a brothel alone. Gulping, he entered. The man guided them to an empty set of chairs. Then, Raoul supposed, the other men scattered about were also waiting- patrons? 

“It’s a busy night,” their guide said with a yawn, “Nicolas is handling the schedule. So be sure you don’t overstay your time or you’ll be taken out. We want to be out of here by dawn.”

Seeing the perplexion on Raoul’s face, Emile explained, “Nicolas is the manager. But don’t worry- as long as we follow the rules, he won’t give us any trouble.”

“Is it your first time?” the concierge asked him.

Raoul must have blanched because then the man reassured him, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Monsieur. They’ll take good care of you.”

“Can you,” Emile ventured, “can you recommend him someone? Someone nice? I’d say Gaspard, but he and I-”

Emile flushed and Raoul had the feeling that this was a conversation he had no right to hear. But it seemed that Emile was determined to reveal every side of himself to Raoul tonight, whether the Vicomte wanted it or not.

“What does he want?” the concierge said, “he looks like he can pay for anyone he’d like. Golden hair? Older men? Skinny? Hairy?”

Raoul wanted to leave. He wanted to drag Emile by the ear and rush back to Philippe’s home. He wanted to clear the air, tell them he had no interest in this debauchery (for he could think of no other word), and dive under his covers as he had when he was a boy. 

“Or are you a man with more peculiar tastes?” the concierge asked, leaning by Raoul’s ear.

“Peculiar?” Raoul repeated.

Seeing his concern as a sign of interest, the man lowered his voice, as if sharing some scandalous secret with the young Vicomte. “In the floor above, there is a room at the very end. It is not for the faint of heart.”

“I am a braver man than you take me for,” Raoul said, effectively masking the budding anxiety within, “what is in that room of yours?”

For a moment, the concierge hesitated, the briefest flash of doubt passing through his eyes. Then he answered, “A man. Of a very different sort than what we offer. If you want a night with him-”

His fingers entered Raoul’s pocket, finding nothing but a spare handkerchief. “-It’s a hefty price.”

Raoul tucked the handkerchief back in, having decided then that he wanted no part in whatever it was this man was trying to sell. He did not like the way the concierge said the word- “peculiar”- on his lips, it sounded like a drug, a dose of opioid that would do more harm than good. 

“I’ll pay,” Emile said.

The Vicomte snapped towards him, about to gape when Emile added, “It’s my treat. Please- let me do this for you.”

Before Raoul could protest, the concierge gestured for him to follow and said, grinning, “What a generous companion you have. I assure you, Monsieur, you won’t regret this.”

Raoul regretted it very much, but found himself following the concierge regardless, as if his legs had taken a life of their own. And then, he supposed, that innermost part of him- to his deepest disturbance- was excited by the prospect of whatever lay in the room. He wanted to see. Why, he did not know. Or perhaps he did-- perhaps he had known since the moment Emile began asking his strange questions. Because Raoul had always cared for men as much as he did women. And he’d wondered, often, how it would feel to touch a body like his own. Not love, he supposed, but how it would feel to touch. The texture of skin, the bristle of beard, the hardened skin of man and men.

He’d wondered, but never acted. And now he supposed he could satisfy that urge with a night. And in the morning, it would be a haze, no more than a dream of muscle and chest.

“We’re here, Monsieur.”

From the banister, Raoul could see Emile in the lobby below, taking the hand of a youth he could only assume was Gaspard. 

“This room belongs to l’Ange.”

Raoul turned back to the concierge and the doors behind. Double doors, crafted and painted with seraphs and vines, the entrance to a suite that had seen much better days. Now the color was faded and chipped, looking not unlike mud beneath the hanging lamp.

“L’Ange?” Raoul said.

“Yes, that is what we call him. He’s very popular so do not take this night for granted. It’s a miracle you came when you did- else, he’d have a line at his door by this time of night.”

“He must be very…” Raoul did not know what to say, for he could not think of anything that made l'Ange better than his peers save perhaps dexterity in bed. “Charming.”

“Ah, there is no limit to his skills, Monsieur. And what’s more- he will allow you to do anything you like.”

A smile crossed the concierge’s lips, more threatening than inviting. “He is as forgiving as an angel.”

Before Raoul could make sense of that statement, the man pushed the doors open. There was no light within, and Raoul suspected the curtains had been drawn shut. He entered, quite sure the concierge would still charge Emile even if he declined l’Ange’s service. He stepped into a room of utter black. 

“Enjoy yourself, Monsieur,” the concierge said behind him, a grin in his voice.

Then the doors shut and he was alone. For a moment, Raoul wondered if he had been tricked, if this was all an elaborate trap that Emile and his father had set, and the next morning, the press would be alight with the Vicomte de Chagny’s great scandal. 

“Hello?” he said.

Monsieur l’Ange seemed a foolish thing to say, so he opted to not say anything after. 

“Have you a lamp?”

Still nothing.

“May I see your face?”

And just when he was sure there was nobody at all in the room, Raoul heard a voice before its words-- a smooth, honeyed sound that reminded him of wine in glass. 

“No,” it’d said, “this is your first time.”

And he desired nothing more than to hear it speak again.

“Are you- are you l’Ange?” he asked, turning his head in the dark. 

He tried to find the direction of that voice but could not. Then he felt hands under his shirt, arms coming up behind his waist. Instinct told him to jump away, but Raoul only caught his breath and stood. A shiver ran down his spine, a thrill that pulsated through his veins.

He had touched himself in the navy, a young man exploring the mechanisms in his body. The pleasure had been mild. But this was something else altogether. He felt fingers run along his ribs, long and trimmed and cool. And dipped in something smooth. 

“I am,” the voice said.

He felt breath behind his neck.

“What- what now?” he asked.

“What would you like?” L’Ange said, tone drooping to a purr.

He wished to see l’Ange, desperately. But perhaps the man’s beauty would burn Raoul to a crisp- the dark was melting his senses. He thought himself Psyche in Cupid’s thrall. Wax wings around his bones.

Gulping, Raoul groped for l’Ange’s palms. He moved them down, into his trousers, and sighed when l'Ange took his cue. Those hands took his member into their grip, rubbing and sculpting as he moaned, slick oil coating every inch. It felt good, almost painful, but on the cusp of pleasure. 

“Sit down, Monsieur,” l’Ange said- no, breathed.

He released Raoul’s cock- much to the Vicomte’s protest- and guided him to the edge of a bed. He felt l'Ange pull his trousers off and ease him onto the bed. A weight settled on his lap. Thighs, lean and tight. 

“Ah,” Raoul gasped, “ah-”

His manhood throbbed. Horribly. His blood begged for Cupid’s mercy, and L’Ange delivered. Something settled over its tip, an entrance that pressed down slowly. Hands touched Raoul’s head, ruffling his hair as l’Ange moaned. Raoul was inside him now. 

It occurred to him that this was his first. But he felt no shame. He was so lost in pleasure that he did not care. He only wanted to shove the rest of himself into L’Ange, anything to feel more of that pulsating burn. 

“Relax, Monsieur,” l’Ange said between gasps, his voice more of a hum than words.

With a groan, he lifted himself from Raoul, tugging the Vicomte’s wrist with a shaky hand. He pulled Raoul down. But Raoul did not meet the mattress. He felt the coverlet beneath his palms, tattered cloth. Under him, he felt the back of a man, bones jutting under naked skin. Had l’Ange been nude this whole time?

He explored what he could touch of l’Ange, spots of cool skin, an occasional scar- of angel wings, he thought hazily- solid shoulders, wiry muscle and bands of ribs and spine. L’Ange shifted when he touched his head, but Raoul caught traces of smooth hair between his fingers, threads of silk. 

“Will I-” Raoul hesitated, lost in heat, “Will I hurt you?”

“It’s all right, Monsieur. I will not move.”

L’Ange arched, forcing Raoul to bob along. And then he felt it, himself grinding into l’Ange’s entrance, the man’s buttocks parting for his member. Raoul went in, hands slipping from the covers and onto L’Ange’s hips. In. And in.

L’Ange groaned, or perhaps he sang, the noise floating into Raoul’s ears. And as he moaned in tune with Cupid beneath, Raoul heard himself cry, releasing the rest into L’Ange. Shaking, he flipped on his side, wet and horoughly awed.

L’Ange shifted. Raoul heard footsteps and then sighed when fabric pressed to his cock. L’Ange cleaned him with what Raoul could only presume was his own handkerchief.

“Can you see in the dark?” he muttered.

“I am accustomed to it,” L’Ange said, voice thinned to a whisper.

Those fingers touched Raoul’s face, lightly tracing his jaw. He felt his head slide onto L’Ange’s lap. 

“Now what?” he asked.

“I sing for you. And the next man comes in.”

Raoul felt a clumsy envy towards the next man to enter. Then he remembered that L’Ange was not his lover- of course not! He hardly knew what the man looked like. There was only one Cupid, but countless Psyches at his door. 

But he could not ruminate on this for long, because l’Ange began his song, a gentle tune that dulled Raoul’s senses and lulled him to a light slumber. He would have spent eternity in l’Ange’s lap if it wasn’t for the knock on the door.

Orange light swam in and at the threshold, Raoul could make out the concierge’s face.

“Gather your clothes, Monsieur!” he said, “we haven’t all night!”

Raoul looked beside him. But l’Ange was gone. And all that remained was his trousers on the floor.

* * *

Raoul had returned with Emile the night before, both flushed with excitement and rather pleased with their venture. He’d wanted to scold Emile but simply couldn’t and the other man ended up staying the night at the de Chagny home. 

“How was he?” Emile had asked him, “l’Ange?”

“You’ve never…”

“No. I don’t think I could handle it.”

Raoul had smiled. “He was wonderful.”

When Philippe asked Raoul of his experience, he’d only said it was “unforgettable.”

Philippe had ruffled his hair and called him a rake. “A gentleman’s face and a rogue’s disposition!”

Raoul slept well past noon, tossing and turning from dreams of Cupid beside him. He thought of lovely lips, red as cherries, and golden hair, shimmering like light upon waves. Yes, that must have been the face that matched l’Ange. Perhaps l’Ange was someone they already knew, a prince by birth who wished to avoid scandal by not showing his face.

But a voice such as his- Raoul would surely remember. A voice had not managed to make his head spin so since Christine.

_Oh Lotte! Forgive me._

Raoul wondered if l’Ange thought of him as well, rather disappointed when he rationalized how little he mattered in the grand scheme of it. How many men went to him each night? 

When his sisters visited in the afternoon, Raoul was only half awake. He was overjoyed to see his family together, surely, but his mind always crept back to the Hotel Apollo and Cupid in the dark. And when dusk fell over, Raoul told Philippe he wanted to go for a walk. 

Philippe had frowned, as if he knew what Raoul planned (however misinformed), but relented in the end.

“Enjoy yourself, but don’t lose your head, little brother.”

* * *

The lines were longer each night, and l’Ange cost a good franc. But Raoul did not come to regret the stuffy lobby or the noises behind each wall. He found his way to the Apollo at least thrice a week, sometimes booking l’Ange in advance-- such a thing was not allowed, the concierge told him, but for Raoul, he’d make an exception.

For two months- four weeks- each night, he’d enter l’Ange’s room. Their routine was the same each time, hands gracing around his member, the scent of olive oil on his skin. And then l’Ange would fall. He’d splay himself on his bed and let Raoul take every part of him.

Raoul would kiss his throat, then smell his collar, and press into his chest. And his teeth would find a nipple to scrape. Then Raoul found his thighs and parted them. He would thrust himself into l’Ange’s very being and wait for the song to come. And when he’d finished, l’Ange would stroke his brow and touch his skin.

“What would you have me do?” L’Ange always asked.

“What you’d like,” Raoul told him.

Except once, perhaps too lost in ecstasy, he’d said- begged- “Take me in your mouth.”

And l’Ange did. Raoul felt lips around his cock, l’Ange’s breath puckering as he sucked. And it was unlike anything he’d felt before. He’d released himself then, however hard he’d tried to resist. To his shock, l’Ange choked and swallowed what’d come out.

“Would you like more?” l’Ange gasped, head still between Raoul’s legs.

Raoul grasped his shoulders. “I want to see you. Please.”

He heard l’Ange’s breath tremble. Then the man said, “Tomorrow, tell Mathis. He will take your money first.”

And darkly, he mumbled, “Do not regret it, Monsieur.”

* * *

Raoul did as l’Ange instructed the following evening. It was some time past ten and Philippe had gone out with his mistress, a ballerina from the Opera. Raoul left their home after instructing the staff to tell Philippe he’d went to call on Emile. It was true enough-- he had little doubt Emile would be seeing Gaspard that night at the Apollo. In the lobby, Raoul found the concierge- Mathis as l’Ange had called him- and pulled him aside. 

“How much would it cost?” he asked, “to see l’Ange?”

“Are so sure about this, Monsieur?”

Raoul nodded, hoping Mathis would catch the hint in his eyes-- he would not leave until this was done.

“All right,” Mathis told him, “he’ll be ready in an hour’s time. Allow us to prepare him for you.”

Raoul had wanted to protest. He doubted Gaspard needed any grooming-- that young man only combed his care and walked out to greet Emile. He saw no reason why l’Ange could not do the same, but he feared Mathis would hike up the price should he see Raoul’s impatience. And Raoul did not trust himself not to pay all Mathis wanted for a glimpse of his Cupid. It was foolish, he knew, and a wasteful endeavor but he could not quell the urge to see the man he’d wanted for so many nights.

While he paced the lobby, too anxious to sit, it occurred to him that l’Ange had never seen him in the light. If the man was as lovely as he imagined, Raoul wondered if he would be disappointed. He shook these thoughts- no, he knew himself to be handsome enough, at least according to those around him. He was used to women casting him second glances. And in the navy, he knew at least two of the boys beside him had eyed him in more than friendly ways. 

And if l’Ange was unsatisfied with his face, Raoul at least had his physique. Surely his time in service had paid off in that respect-- he was no longer the lanky youth of years past. He was a man, chest broad and limbs tight. And then, should all this please l’Ange, Raoul would ask to meet him outside the Apollo. Yes, they could finally speak instead of kiss and-

“Monsieur, he’s ready.”

The concierge returned. He moved his fingers, urging Raoul to hurry. “It’s always busiest Tuesday nights. You best make the most of it.”

* * *

When Mathis shut the doors behind him, Raoul saw l’Ange’s suite for the first time. There was a hole in the ceiling, covered with two planks of wood, perhaps where a small chandelier once hung. Heavy curtains closed around a window, blocking any semblance of light from streaming in. The carpet was grey beneath his feet, velvet faded to a dusty splotch. It was spacious at the very least and the walls were high, though the paper was already peeling, signs that the room had not been well kept over the years, made all the more unsettling by the flickering candelabra Mathis had set by the door

His eye drifted from the cherubs adorning the chaise longue to the oak wardrobe and bare dressers. Until it landed on the bed in the center, lost under a canopy of velvet. L’Ange was behind it. Raoul was sure of this, and with each step forward, his heart skipped an awful beat.

 _Do not regret it_ , l’Ange had told him.

He could turn back now, he supposed. But Raoul would never sleep easy again if he did not look upon l’Ange’s face. He heard the gulp in his throat. Candlelight shimmered in the shadows.

And then he pulled the canopy open. 

A man sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded across his lap. He did not turn to greet Raoul, but the Vicomte knew- this was the man he’d held each night since he’d first been dragged into the Hotel Apollo.

They had dressed l’Ange in an evening suit, a white bow tied around his collar. From there, Raoul’s gaze trailed up to the half of his face he could see. The other side, l’Ange kept turned away, his profile all Raoul could glimpse in the low light.

And l’Ange was nothing like Raoul had imagined. He was -somehow- even lovelier. He was, Raoul thought, the most beautiful man his eyes had ever graced

His nose was straight, a slight hook at its edge, accompanied by a high cheekbone, a soft shadow cast around the line of his clean jaw. He kept his gaze low, the tips of his lashes swept with gold, the color a strange contrast with the inky shade of his hair, smooth and combed and textured like silk. 

L’Ange had never been sun on sea. He was the moon, a shaft of light only ghosts could touch. And for a moment, Raoul feared l’Ange would disappear if he dared step closer. 

“Is it you?” Raoul whispered.

Those lips, blood on marble, parted. “I am, Monsieur.”

And that voice was unmistakable. Raoul sat beside him, a hesitant hand on L’Ange’s face. He was solid. Real.

Raoul turned the man’s head towards his own, only then noticing the dust on his suit- fine at first glance and worn up close. The left side of L’Ange’s face was white as porcelain, coated with a layer of heavy powder, as if to hide any blemishes touching his skin. Raoul could not see any crease or mark, the man thoroughly ageless in his hands.

His lips were full, but what’d he mistaken for natural crimson now looked like paint. The arch of his left brow, thin and black, also appeared a stroke of brush. But the makeup did not shock him. It was the mask pressed to the right side of l’Ange’s face, stretching from the tip of his upper lip to his left temple, covering most of his nose in white. If not for the shine upon the false cheek, Raoul would have mistaken the mask for skin, a testament to how pale Mathis and his staff had made l’Ange.

“May I?” Raoul asked, touching the strap of the mask.

L’Ange went rigid, an unmistakable glint of hurt in his eyes. But it passed soon enough. “If you wish.”

Raoul removed his hand. He did not wish to upset l’Ange. And looking at him again, he guiltily wondered if he’d simply mistaken sorrow for beauty.

Because l’Ange was indeed the most profoundly sad man he had ever seen. And it made Raoul wish to see a smile, some sign that the man was not in perpetual pain.

“Maybe another time,” he told l’Ange. “When you wish it.”

The statement left l’Ange shocked, evident in the bulge of his eyes. Raoul wanted to ask why, but he knew the concierge would be back within the hour, if not less.

“Then what do you wish of me tonight?” l’Ange asked.

“The usual, I suppose,” Raoul said, “I’ve only dreamt of seeing you.”

“Do I disappoint?”

Raoul laughed. “No! Quite the opposite. I hope _you’re_ not disappointed by me.”

In utter seriousness, the man replied, “You are the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, Monsieur.”

Raoul felt heat behind his cheeks. Strange, he had engaged in far more intimate activities with l’Ange and not felt an ounce of shame. But l’Ange thankfully did not notice-- he’d stood by then, back to Raoul as he stripped down. The jacket fell, followed by his shirt coming undone.

And any anticipation Raoul felt died. 

Scar upon scar trailed across his shoulder blades, tracks from a whip and what looked to be cuts from knives. When l’Ange turned, Raoul saw a pocket of bruises on his throat, and still more scars winding down his chest. Handprints splashed over his jutting ribs, marks of black and blue amidst bits of dried blood. 

Raoul heard Mathis’s voice in his head, words resurfacing from a month ago- _“he will allow you to do anything you like. He’s as forgiving as an angel.”_

And with horror, he realized the powder was not only used to hide l’Ange’s wrinkles. No, it covered the bruises on his face, for they were no doubt there.

“Monsieur, are you all right?”

L’Ange was on his knees, hands resting on Raoul’s thighs. His trousers, Raoul saw, were already gone. When l’Ange touched the Vicomte’s buckle, Raoul stayed his hand. He wondered if he looked as sick as he felt.

“I don’t want this,” he said, “I- I don’t want to hurt you.”

Puzzlement again graced l’Ange’s features. “You’ve never hurt me, Monsieur. You’re the only one…” And he stopped himself from saying more.

But Raoul made up his mind. He left that bed and adjusted his trousers. Carefully he picked up l’Ange’s clothes and handed them back, almost ashamed to look upon his wounds.

“Monsieur, what…”

“I have a request for you. From now on,” the Vicomte said, “call me Raoul. That is my name.”

“Raoul,” l’Ange said immediately.

But Raoul stopped him from saying more, shoving the clothes back into l’Ange’s hands. He furled his own fingers around the man’s own, and compelled by a fiery conviction, said, “Tell me your name. Not what Mathis calls you.”

L’Ange hesitated. And after a moment that felt much longer, said, “I was once called Erik.”

Raoul let go. “Erik. I will come back.”

And when he pushed the doors open, he made an unspoken vow- _and I shall take you with me._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are more than welcome!
> 
> Please let me know if you'd like to see this continued. If it does, it'll probably be a 3-shot and end with an RCE OT3 kind of scenario. As for who Erik and Raoul are based on, feel free to insert your ideal face-claims.


End file.
